


Heart's Drumming

by runningondreams



Series: Stumbling, Fumbling, Falling [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Pre-Relationship, dorian flirts, poor decisions are made, trust building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5790946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams/pseuds/runningondreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts, as too many things in Dorian’s life tend to, when he’s looking for a book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart's Drumming

It's another cold, improbably sunny day when Dorian stumbles upon the inquisitor in the small cellar library he wasn't sure anyone else knew existed. A foolish thought, obviously. Nearly as foolish as the inquisitor's choice of perch and reading material—he's settled onto the cold floor behind the rickety desk, cobwebs stretching over his head and a copy of Defenidirin's _Dracona_ _Magus_ open in his lap. Drivel, every page of it.

His arrival doesn't go unnoticed, of course, and Lavellan is already closing the heavy leather covers as Dorian realizes he should probably stop glowering at the book and _say_ something. 

Lavellan beats him to it.

“Did you need something, Dorian?” he asks. 

“Just thought I'd remembered seeing something worth keeping mixed in with all the rubbish down here,” Dorian waves, vaguely, “won't be a tick.”

He takes the requisite two steps to the appropriate bookcase and scans the bindings, trying as always to _not_ look as if the inquisitor has captured the majority of his attention. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Lavellan's head tilt back down, but Defenidirin's thoughtless jabberings stay closed. Interesting.

“You know, I think I saw Cassandra looking for you earlier,” he says, picking a slim tome at random and tucking it under his arm. “She didn't look any angrier than usual, if that's any comfort.”

It's at least nice to know Lavellan doesn't reserve his mirthless smiles for Dorian's tales of his homeland.

“Cassandra isn't happy unless she knows exactly what I'm doing at all times,” he says, eyes flashing green against the dim torchlight. “Today she'll just have to do without the satisfaction.” He tilts his head back, and Dorian realizes he's stopped looking at the bookshelves and has instead taken up staring like it's a skill he's honing to perfection.

“Unless you're planning to report me,” Lavellan says, and Dorian forces his gaze back to the books. No point in antagonizing the man again so early in their apparent truce. Who knows what the Dalish consider a challenge. 

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he says as breezily as he can manage. “Besides, last I saw she was decapitating training dummies. I wouldn't even get close enough to put my worst enemy in her path at the moment.”

_That_ gets him a flicker of a smile. It's a little pathetic how much hope he allows himself at the sight. 

So of course, he opens his mouth again.

“Might I inquire as to why you've sequestered yourself in this dark little hole? Not that I'm questioning your efficacy in choice of hiding spots, you understand, but at the very least you could light a candle, perhaps sit in a chair.” He gestures at the dusty travesty of an armchair uselessly—Lavellan has turned back to his shoddy tome of mangled theories.

Silence. Right. Well, still a better outcome than the frosty arguments they were having back in Haven. He picks up another two books at random and finally spies the battered herbal he'd come looking for just as he's preparing to quit the field. At least the whole endeavor wasn't wasted then.

“The servants are washing the windows in my rooms,” Lavellan says, and for a moment Dorian can't actually come up with a response to this. Windows need washing, yes, one of the trials of being able to look outside without the wind ripping through one's bones, what … ah.

The Dalish live in the woods, don't they? In tents or aravels, or whatever the word is. Probably not many windows in all that nature, are there. Or perhaps it's the aspect of having servants. Those are likely thin on the ground as well, in a society that _hunts_ for its daily sustenance. 

He's just about to open his mouth and say something that will probably get him in trouble when Lavellan speaks again.

“I asked them if they wanted help, or if there wasn't something else more important they should spend their time on, since I'm the only one looking through them and a little snow isn't going to bother _me_ and they—” he hunches his shoulders, “they laughed at me. Not aloud,” he corrects himself, as if this is important to Dorian's understanding, “but the way they talked, and some of them kept looking at me as if I might just rear back and _bite_ them, and the nobles in the hall all act as if I’m a particularly clever mabari, as if I can't tell the difference between political posturing and genuine accord and . . .” he trails off and Dorian waits, bites the inside of his cheek with the effort of not speaking because this, _this_ is a side of the inquisitor he's almost certain no one else as seen. Inferred, perhaps—they've all noted the sidelong glances and the not-so-subtle whispers, and certainly he wouldn't dream of putting such knowledge beyond Leliana's reach, but as far as he knows, arguments and stubborn refusal of divinity are the closest anyone's come to knowing what their fearless leader thinks about his new situation.

“I want to go home,” Lavellan whispers. A confession if Dorian's ever heard one, and it bears a tone that's too-familiar: longing, with no expectation of relief.

He wants to say _I know how you feel. Far from home and friends in a strange land with silly customs you can't quite wrap your head around and a language that lies sour on your tongue, never quite conveying the full depth of your meaning, simplifying your thoughts just so you can speak. The food doesn't taste right and the stars look strange and even the most familiar things come laden with strings and complications._

The words catch in his throat, all jumbled and jagged and too much to say at once. He swallows them down. It's just as well. That was probably mostly about _him_ , anyway.

“Want a drink?” he says instead, and he's fully expecting a refusal—Lavellan's refused every other such offer thus far in their acquaintance—but the man abandons his book on the floor and rises smoothly to his feet saying, “I think that's an excellent idea.”

Well then.

( _This was a terrible idea._ Lavellan says later, half-curled around the least-awful bottle of wine they could find in the racks. He's back on the floor of the forgotten library, his limbs loose with intoxication and his head lolling against Dorian's knee and the side of the dusty chair. _Truly terrible,_ he insists through red-stained lips, even as he raises the bottle for another drink and gives Dorian a _very_ nice view of the line of his throat, the wide spread of his hand over cool glass.

_I know,_ Dorian admits, letting his palm brush over one pointy ear as he reaches for the bottle himself. _Most of my ideas are terrible. It's just part of being me_.)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted over on [my tumblr (@imaginaryelle)](http://imaginaryelle.tumblr.com), where you can find more about Raj and my other OCs. I'll also be posting most parts of this series there first.


End file.
